


Whiskey Into Rain

by SenkoWakimarin



Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan), Joker (2019)
Genre: Hand Jobs, M/M, Multiverse, Self-cest, Sexual Inexperience, a lot happens here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-20
Updated: 2020-02-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:21:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22813003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SenkoWakimarin/pseuds/SenkoWakimarin
Summary: The Joker has met other versions of himself before. They're rarely this interesting.
Relationships: Arthur Fleck/Joker (DCU), Joker (DCU)/Joker (DCU)
Comments: 11
Kudos: 114





	Whiskey Into Rain

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mr-finch (soubriquet)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/soubriquet/gifts).



> Eli asks, Eli gets.

This isn't the first time this has happened.

Life is full of wild things and interesting little accidents anyone can get themselves into, and learning to roll with -- learning to _enjoy_ \-- those little accidents is what separates a sad man from a man who can really _smile._

Before the kid, there have been others who fall across the Joker's path, confused and misplaced, recognizing the world around them and marveling at the littler differences. Twice now, at least, the Joker has found himself doing similar, tumbling headlong into a world that's _almost_ real, but just shy of right. 

Eventually, the kid will go home. Or he'll disappear, at any rate. He won't stay -- that's never how this kind of story shakes out, and the Joker doesn't think he'd like it if it was. He's not exactly a fan of sharing the spotlight.

Arthur -- that's what the kid calls himself -- is different from the rest who've crossed the Joker's path this way. He's met more than his share of doppelgangers and pretenders, fools in masks and makeup, living cartoons. Mostly, they passed each other like ships in the night, except when they crashed. The idiot with the tattoos and the silvered teeth, that was a crash -- and he'd crashed himself into a pretty little mess when the Joker dumped him off the side of Ace Chemicals' highest rectification tower.

Now that's what we call _damaged,_ can we get a rimshot?

Mostly, Joker leaves the duplicates to their own devices. It's fun to watch the mess they make and the scramble of pigs and bats and wee little birds trying to clean it all up. They make a little noise, cause a few problems, and then they disappear into the night, back to wherever they came from. Sometimes they brought friends, bats of their own and springy little lady friends with garish costumes and massive hammers; when they disappeared, so did their friends, neat and tidy.

The Joker didn't care much for neat and tidy.

Sometimes they annoy him, his duplicates, his multiverse twins -- mostly they seem as keen to avoid him as he is them. Too many cooks spoil the broth, and what is Gotham but a delicate stew in need of a loving hand to keep it stirring?

Now _Arthur_ \--

Well the kid, as previously stated, is different. 

There's a certain look to these _guests_ that the Joker has come to recognize. Like looking into a fun house mirrors, he can see himself in them, distorted, stretches out, misshapen. Him, but not _him-him_ , however that's possible. A slick suit, a certain malice on the edge of the smile -- giddy arrogance cavorting with a need for something _fun._

Blow up a building, crash a party, shoot a few cops. Hostages and jailbreaks and mayhem in the streets! Have a _party_ before the animals show up and the universe snaps back into shape and flings everyone back where they belong.

Everyone's up for games, that's the nature of the beast.

The kid smokes like a chimney and laughs like he can't help it. Sounds like sobs jerked out of a dying man, coming from nothing -- a nervous tick, maybe, a twitch. It puts knives up the Joker's spine each time, and each time the kid looks at him with big eyes, like he's thinking about apologizing before he goes back to his smoke or staring out the window.

He's _subdued_ , which the Joker is not, and he's considerate, which no one is, and he's _lost_ which everyone is. 

Joker's not sure why he decided to keep the kid around. Boredom, maybe, no games on the board just now. The kid was dumped on him, and as a _rule_ the Joker doesn’t care for that sort of thing. Like the idiot with the tattoos, the kid is a bad knock-off. That laugh alone is --

Well.

But see, the idiot with the tattoos was an insult. Arrogance with no wit behind it, swaggering and demanding, an entitled brat who deserved nothing more than a swift introduction to the pavement from ten stories up or so.

The kid... Joker can't place it, not the way his brain is _itching_ to, but the kid doesn't push all the wrong buttons. Bad knock off, maybe, or deranged prototype -- the kid doesn't half seem to know where he's meant to be or how he's meant to act. He's stuck in a transitional state, half-dead, maybe, half-living too; he's got no direction and he so clearly, so _badly_ wants to belong to someone.

Always something incredibly attractive about a corruptible soul. 

So Joker hadn't shoved the kid on his way, left him to fend for himself when the universe opened up and dumped him in The Joker's lap. Didn't leave him for the piggies to wrangle up with the other dimwits who played pretend anarchy wearing a face that wasn’t theirs, or for the Bat to swoop up and cart off to Arkham. 

No, no, the Joker found the kid cigarettes. The Joker gave him his space, watched him settle into a chair and take the place in with wide eyes, watched him watch the Joker while pretending not to. 

What does the kid see when he looks across the room? 

The Joker’s not interested in living up to expectations -- some of his doubles have learned that upon their meeting, taking him in and expecting -- not deference, maybe, but a maybe a neater reflection of their own aesthetic. Clean and trim and straight backed with that razor smile -- hmm, no, not for him.

Not for Arthur, either, the Joker thinks. No, not for him at all.

When he moves toward the kid, he watches him closer, hand tensing around the cigarette in his fingers. Otherwise the kid doesn’t move; he’s arranged himself on the couch in a lazy sort of sprawl that is utterly belied by the way he can’t keep still until he’s scared.

And he is scared, when the Joker gets in close. 

Most people are; the kid isn’t scared in a crying, try-to-run kind of a way, which is novel. He sits there very still, watches the Joker sit on the beaten in coffee table in front of him, and then very slowly lowers the cigarette from his mouth, watching. He exhales carefully, face turning a quarter inch to one side and lips pursed to angle the smoke away, and the Joker wants to see a _reaction_ suddenly.

He reaches out slow, a caress instead of the slap he’s thinking of -- because the kid’s expecting a slap, when his hand moves. Anyone can see that; the kid telegraphs fear like nobody’s business, if you know how to look. Anxiety, the flinchy look of a dog raised on beatings and sparsely doled praise -- just enough hope to keep from snapping.

Jokers fingers settle against Arthur’s cheek, thumb swiping at the red smeared and crusted around the kid’s mouth, that sloppy curve of a circus grin. Dry, flaking as the Joker’s thumb moves; he’d figured it right. Up close it’s obvious where the blood came from, too.

There’s no scar under Joker’s palm -- no scars on either cheek. It occurs to the Joker, a sudden spark in the dark, that he has a knife in his sleeve. Pretty, slender little thing, so sharp it’d feel like a kiss.

The kid’s face turns, cheek pressing into his palm, the driest twist of a smile curving his mouth. 

Interesting. 

“What d’you call a man with no legs,” the kid asks, and when the Joker cocks his head to side, that smile spreads a little as he finishes, saying, “Neil.”

For a little while, they stay just like that. The kid doesn't move his face from the Joker's hand, the Joker doesn't move his hand from the kid's face. The kid offers a few jokes, set up and punch with varying aim on the punches. Arthur talks, the Joker lets him.

It would be easy, _easy_ to hurt this kid. He's practically asking for it, just about begging, his cheek settled into the cup of the Joker's palm. It'd be simple to strike him, knock him down and pin him, carve him open. Maybe the kid would fight -- maybe he'd lay there and take it, maybe he'd _welcome_ it. He's enough like the Joker to see where he might mirror him, and he's enough his own creature to predict the ways that reflection might warp.

Similarity, not duality. They're never the same, never two of a kind. Jokers from different decks.

None of the others were ever so _interesting_ in their differences. 

When the kid finally makes him laugh

( _"Why don't orphans play baseball?"_

 _"They don't know where home is."_ )

those eyes go all wide again, not fear but a sort of anticipatory pleasure that's _very_ becoming. The kid sits up a little straighter, puppy waiting for a treat, when the Joker leans in to close the distance, purring his name.

Easy. The kid's easy, like playing the tambourine. Figure out the beat and you're all set, get in close and show a little interest, and those pupils blast to full dilation, lips part just a little. Tastes like a fucking ashtray when the Joker gets his fingers in that hair and drags him into a kiss, but the Joker has tasted worse, oh yes.

And the kid's eager. It's clear as anything that he's not got a single clue what he's doing, no practice, no reservation. Asked to pick between finesse and sheer untried enthusiasm, though, and the Joker is gonna pick the newbie every time. If nothing else, the result will always be funnier.

They end up on the floor together. The kid is compliant, sprawled on his back with the Joker curled over him, predator over delighted prey, right up until the Joker worms a hand between the kid's legs and starts working his fly. All the sudden he's bucking, the tight, excited hitching of his breath turned to a sharp whine.

"Ah ah ah," the Joker croons, digging his fingers into Arthur's thigh and feeling him buck up into the touch. "You don't wanna do that. We don't wanna find out what happens if one of us gets all _riled_ up."

Maybe they do.

Maybe they will. 

But the words seem to do the job, threatening or calming enough that Arthur holds himself stiffly still as the Joker gets his hand back on the good, palming the kid through his slacks. He's hard as anything, which maybe ain't the same as a signed consent form but will serve enough for their needs. 

Usually not one for a lot of teasing, the Joker makes an exception here, taking the time to play with Arthur before he returns to getting his trousers open. Maybe it's the noises he makes -- that nails-on-chalkboard laughter turned to something else, something edged and breathy, Arthur's fingers digging into the worn out carpet as he mutters out half-formed entreaties. 

That's good shit, there. Yessir, never let it be said that the Joker hasn't got an ear for a little begging.

Burgundy is a good look on the kid. The Joker had never played too much with the look; he liked the suits, he liked the cut of them and the twist on something meant to signify order, authority, on a man dressed like a clown. Arthur makes it look... casual. The jacket spread out under him like that, highlighting pallor of his skin when the Joker yanks open his shirt, slacks open and cock jutting up hard and wet; debauched.

Goddamn stunning, for a fun house mirror of himself.

Laughing again, the Joker gets a fist around the kid's dick and strokes him off, hard and relentless. He thinks about making the kid undress the rest of the way, thinks about fucking him, sucking him off, thinks about making Arthur suck him off, but this is too good to quit till he gets the goods, because the kid's whining and giggling and twitching up into his touch like he's never done this before -- and there's something, oh yes, oh most definitely, always something so attractive about a corruptible soul.

Arthur cackles his way through orgasm, one hand clutching into the lapel of the Joker's suit, the closest thing to demanding he’s been yet. He doesn’t let go, eyes wide and starved when the Joker sits back on his own knees, casually shoving his own trousers down and gripping himself.

The kid doesn’t reach to help, just keeps his hold on the Joker’s jacket, but that’s fine; the Joker didn’t expect too much, watching the way Arthur’s still struggling to get a full breath. The shivery, shallow moan he gets when his cum stripes over the mess Arthur’s made on his own belly is better than whatever half-assed handjob the kid would have managed in this state anyway.

Laid out, the kid drops his hand from the Joker’s suit, stunned as he fumbles for a fresh cigarette. Joker considers leaning in an licking up the cum pooled on his belly, getting it on his fingers and pushing it into Arthur’s mouth, just to see what he’d do. 

When Arthur exhales, flicking ash on the floor, he plucks the cigarette from his fingers and takes a drag.

“We gotta work on your material, kid,” he says after a moment, enjoying the lazy way Arthur takes his cigarette back, turning it in nimble fingers before taking another puff and offering it willingly back with a grin.

“I dunno,” the kid says, easy but shy. “Seemed to get me pretty far with you.”


End file.
